Harry Potter and the Adjective Noun
by Execrator
Summary: Harry does a bunch of stuff, and he figures out who God really is! Don't flame me too much for my bad writing; I'm fragile. Rated PG-13 for violence and crude humor.


Harry Potter and the –Insert Adjective- -Insert Noun-.

** Disclaimer: Guess who doesn't own Harry Potter? ME! You know what that means: don't sue me. I haven't done anything wrong. **

Harry was sort of pissed off. His godfather had died only two weeks ago, plus he had just stubbed his toe on a very inconveniently placed bed.

"Goddamn motherfucking piece of shit!" Harry yelled at his bed, which didn't respond. "Fuck you then, you lousy good-for-nothing hunk of crap!"

Just then, an owl ran into the window. It made a painful-looking splatter, (looks sorta like a face, Harry thought) and the letter it was carrying dropped to the ground. "Well, no more Mr. Owl. Too bad. Hope it wasn't the schools." Harry thought. He jumped out the window to retrieve the letter. That was a bad idea. It hurt pretty bad. It also didn't help that a shovel was right there. It left a pretty big gash on his forehead.

Now in a complete state of mental chaos, Harry wandered randomly into the cul-de-sac, where he fell over the curb. A bunch of smart-assed teenagers on bikes ran over him for fun. A couple of pigeons shat on him. Dudley shat on him. A random pudgy-faced five year old stuck a piece of gum in his hair.

A couple hours later, Harry woke up. He felt pretty shitty. There was blood caked all over his face and matted in his hair. There was also a mysterious sticky white substance on his chest (not what you think it was, you perverts). He stumbled the 20 yards back to his house, where he stumbled up to his room and collapsed on his bed. The letter was all but forgotten.

Upon waking up at 4 in the morning, he went to go to the bathroom. After stubbing his toes on countless amounts of furniture, and screaming far beyond human auditory range, he finally made it. He stood there in the shower for 15 minutes before he remembered that you actually had to turn the water _on_. He took a quick shower to get all the blood off his face and then went back to his room. This time, in a brief period of clear thinking, he turned the light on so he wouldn't die of toe fractures.

As the light turned on he saw the grotesque picture of hurt that was the splattered owl. Then, his brain slowly processing the information, he realized that it probably had a letter with it. A couple more minutes of completely mind-numbing "thought" brought to mind the fact that there _was_ a letter, and it was on the ground underneath his second-story window.

This time he didn't jump out the window. He walked calmly, if somewhat clumsily, down the stairs, and out the front door. He retrieved the letter and tried to read it, but it was too dark. After standing there like a moron for a few seconds, he realized he could take it up to his room and read it there. Which is what he did.

The letter read:

'Dear Mr. Potter,

We are glad to inform you that you have been chosen for a psychiatric survey conducted by Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. Please answer the following questions to the best of your ability. There are no "wrong" answers, but there _are_ answers that are stupid enough to make us laugh at you if you write them. After completing the survey, send it back with the owl that delivered it.

Many thanks,

The Hogwarts Staff'

"A psychiatric survey? What the fuck? Why the hell would a wizardry school administer a psychiatric survey?" Harry thought, after reading the letter. "Well, since I have nothing better to do, I might as well fill it out". After spending 15 minutes looking for a quill, he sat down at his desk and began to write.

The questions were among the stupidest he had ever seen. They were asking him to look at inkblots and tell them what he saw. All he saw were inkblots, but he guessed that wasn't the right answer, so he put "a cactus" for every single one. The survey of 1000 of these so-called "questions" took him only 20 minutes.

Since the post owl had met its untimely demise, Harry used Hedwig to send it back. Hedwig hadn't been out of her cage for 10 days due to Harry's negligence, so when she got out she pecked Harry's scalp for 5 minutes before leaving with the survey. Pissed off at having such a shit-for-brains bird, Harry kicked his dresser. Pain ensued. Harry began to cry like a little baby.

"Why is my life so retarded? How come Charlo can't come up with any good jokes and has to rely on pain to make his stories funny? Why why why why why?" Harry yelled at the ceiling. After staring angrily at the ceiling for 5 minutes waiting for an answer, it slowly dawned on Harry that he had no free will whatsoever. All his actions were determined by a sadistic 14 year old boy from Wisconsin. Realizing there was no theoretical end to the pain he would be put through, Harry tried to kill himself. Luckily, it didn't work. Ha ha.

Now in a state of extreme depression, Harry sat there and cried. He grabbed the bottles and bottles of anti-depressants that were under his bed and started chugging them. They didn't help one bit. All they did was make him puke. Unwilling to get up to clean the puke off himself, he sat there for 4 ½ hours.

Then Hedwig came back. She had the results of the so-called "test". Harry had failed, which is bad enough on its own, but this was one of those tests you _can't_ fail. This proves Harry's general suckiness in all aspects of life. Hedwig, sensing his sadness, only pecked his head for 3 minutes.

Now completely unwilling to go on with life, Harry locked himself in his closet. He hoped that he would die. That's all he thought about. But instead of dying, Harry fell asleep.

When he woke up, Harry was back in some sort of weird dungeon. "Oh, shit." Harry thought, his mind slowly descending into panic. "Oh, shit. No way. Oh my God. Shit"

Suddenly there was a puff of smoke, and when it cleared, Voldemort was there. He looked pretty angry.

"This is it Potter! We will fight to the death!" boomed Voldemort.

"Okay. I know Charlo will not let me die." Responded Harry, now all of a sudden glad that he was controlled by the omnipotent 14 year-old god Charlo. Charlo wouldn't let the title character die, would he?

Then a ref appeared in a puff of smoke just like Voldemort, and yelled, "Let's get it on!"

Voldemort, to start out with, cast a killing curse in Harry's general direction. Luckily for Voldemort, it hit Harry square in the face. "I win! I win! I win!" yelled Voldemort, jumping up and down. "Yipee!"

**The end.**


End file.
